Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (29 page)

An alien blade of fear poked through his gut. He wasn't worried about anything Anderson's man might do. He had handled rougher sorts. He was afraid that he had done exactly what the King of Storyville said, which was to quite efficiently cut his own throat. It had been stupid, because he could now end up disgraced and shoved so far away that he'd never break the very case that had brought him there.

His mind went calm, something he could have used with Anderson at Germaine's. Like a fool, he had let his true feelings rise up and pour out in a rush. He saw Anderson's face again, in anger and then derision. He had blundered with the threat of quitting and the bluster of the promise to close the case. The King of Storyville could relax. Valentin posed no threat to whomever or whatever he was protecting.

He suddenly recalled a story Struve once told him. Some years in the past, a successful pimp who generally behaved himself one day decided to put two sisters on the street who were too young for Tom Anderson's comfort. Anderson sent a polite request that the pimp send the girls back home, wherever that was. The request was ignored; the sisters were already turning a nice profit. Then Anderson sent a message that the pimp had twenty-four hours to get out of Storyville. The fellow sent word back for Anderson to mind his own business, that he wasn't going anywhere and neither were the girls. By daybreak he was gone, as completely as if he had been turned to dust and blown away, and was never seen or heard from again. The sisters were cleaned up and put on a train back to their family in Ohio.

When Valentin asked if Anderson had the man killed, Struve laughed and said that he doubted it. More likely, the King of Storyville simply had someone explain to the fellow that by sundown he and his various broken limbs would be occupying a bed in Charity Hospital, and when he could walk again, he would be locked away in Parish Prison and would not see the light of day for a very long time.

Valentin himself had been an arm of the authority that Anderson wielded in those parts. If you crossed him, your next stop was the ticket window at Union Station, if you were lucky. Now the tables were turned and the detective spent an idle moment thinking about where he would go if he had to choose.

In any case, he was not about to crawl back to beg for his job. It was too late. Maybe it was time for a change. He had been on a slow descent, and he needed more than anything to break that spiral and fix what was wrong. Though it was also possible that one of Anderson's men was at that moment purchasing him a ticket to parts unknown.

When he got back to Magazine Street, he found that he couldn't sit still and told Dominique to put on a walking dress. She hurried to get ready, delighted for a chance to get out of the house. She snatched up a hat and a coverlet to lay on the ground.

On the streetcar across town, they got odd looks from the other passengers, and it dawned on Valentin that this was the first time the two of them had been out in public. It was one thing for him to be squiring a quadroon like Justine around town. It was quite another to be escorting someone like Dominique. There was no getting around her dark mahogany skin and darker ebony eyes.

He didn't care; indeed, he was in a mood to stare back. Dominique saw the looks and thought how different it was on Tobago. There, no one cared whether she was with a man who was as pink as a seashell or the blackest nigger on the island.

Not so in downtown New Orleans, though once they crossed Basin Street, she relaxed. The puzzled and resentful stares were now fixed on Valentin, and they came from the colored passengers showing their resentment at someone who appeared to be a white man bedding one of their own.

They transferred to the Esplanade Belt and rode four blocks west to Dumaine Street. The car was crowded, and as they drew near the stop, they saw gaggles of pedestrians crossing over the tracks and into the park, a sea of parasols and derby hats. It was a pretty fall day, with high, puffy clouds and a cool breeze off the Gulf.

A wagon had been pulled onto the grass, and Valentin got in line to buy them both a boudin wrapped in waxed paper and a bottle of Chero-Cola. Dominique laid the coverlet on the grass, and they sat down to eat and watch the swelling crowd. When they finished, they got up, folded the blanket, and strolled closer to the bandstand. The crowd changed, shifting by degrees to take in more whites and Creoles. So Dominique was now one of only a few darker faces.

They came upon a row of large tents that had been erected along one of the pathways, staffed by Negro waiters pouring libations and offering light snacks. These were private areas, cordoned by long ribbons that were tied to wooden stakes. They were passing near one of the tents when Valentin glanced over to see Justine standing with a gentleman who could only be her Frenchman. They were outside the tent, just on the other side of the cordon. She was wearing a demure cotton walking dress and held a parasol over her shoulder. She looked lovely, like the daughter of some well-off Creole family, and yet there was something wrong about her appearance that Valentin couldn't put his finger on.

She must have sensed his stare, because she turned her head. Dominique noticed, too, and he felt her tense beside him. Justine looked from him to the black girl and the women's gazes met in midair. Though Dominique was bristling, Justine stared back at her with a blank wonder.

Paul Baudel turned around to say something to Justine and saw the three of them standing there, frozen, like cats in an alley. He looked Valentin up and down, then glanced at the pretty young black-skinned girl. He looked sidelong at Justine and saw that she had gone into another of her dazes. With a sigh of annoyance, he touched her arm and hissed something quick and biting. The spell was broken. She blinked, then nodded and turned away obediently. The Frenchman led her into the shade of the tent, where other white men with their dusky companions drank and talked.

Dominique watched them walk off. "What's she doin' out here?" she blurted.

"The same thing we are," Valentin said, placatingly. "She can go anywhere she wants."

"She just better stay in there where she belongs," Dominique said.

Valentin let out a sudden laugh. It caught her by surprise and her anger went away. He offered his arm, and as they started moving off, he glanced back over his shoulder. "So that's her fellow," he murmured.

Dominique said, "He dresses right well."

Valentin found this comment funny as well, and his mouth crooked gently.

Dominique smiled up at him, then pointed off toward the bandstand. "Maybe we could find us a place over there," she said. "I mean
way
over there."

They got back home late in the afternoon. Though he didn't see them again, he had thought about Justine and the Frenchman throughout the day. He didn't know what to make of it. It was the first time he had seen her in the light since the morning she had walked out. That one close look told him that she did look different, like someone he had met somewhere but couldn't quite place.

He followed Dominique up the stairs, feeling wearier with every step. As he opened the door, he paused to consider that Anderson was not likely to let him keep the rooms. The downtown flat had been offered years ago, as part of their original arrangement. There was no reason that he should be allowed to stay there. For tonight, though, he still had a home.

When they got inside, Dominique took off her hat and placed it on the arm of the couch. She stood in profile in the afternoon light that was coming through the window and just beginning to turn gold. He was startled in that moment at how beautiful she looked and was humbled that she had come to him. It was still a mystery to him why she had done it, but he decided that pondering that could wait until tomorrow, too.

She looked at him, saw the odd, dreamy expression on his face, and said, "Suh?"

He studied her face for a moment, then stepped behind her and began undoing the hooks down the back of her dress, slowly, revealing her dark skin inches at a time. She closed her eyes and bent her head forward. When his fingertips touched her flesh, she caught her breath. Once the hooks were undone to her waist, he took the dress in his fingers and pushed it off her shoulders. She was wearing a ribbed vest of soft cotton underneath. With the same slow movements, he undid the hooks on the back of her skirt. He opened the last one, and the skirt dropped to the floor around her feet.

She turned to face him. He brought his hands up, held her face, kissed her mouth. She sighed softly, the tiniest breath, tasting of cinnamon. He put his hands on her shoulders and moved the straps of her vest down over her arms. She smiled at him and he saw the coy look in her eyes. He pushed her gently down onto the couch.

Afterward, they curled for a long time, not speaking at all, as the sun dropped, turned deeper gold, then a dark, bloody orange.

She started to get up once. He held her there. She murmured something about dinner. He told her it could wait.

They were quiet for more minutes. Then she said, "She ain't at all happy, suh."

"Who?"

"Justine. Who else? And she's goin' to try to come back."

"You think so?"

"I t'ink so, yes. No, I know it."

"Why? That Frenchman's rich. She's got what every woman wants."

Dominique shook her head. "No, suh, not every woman. Not her. Not me."

They were quiet for a while longer. Then she roused herself. "I want to make you a good dinner tonight," she whispered. "I believe you earned it. It's going to take me a bit of time, though."

"How much time?"

"Couple hours, I t'ink."

She kissed him, stretched her arms and legs, and stood up. He reached out and slipped a hand inside her thigh. "Don't you start, or you gonna starve to death," she said, and backed away from him. He laid there thinking as he watched the sun disappear over the rooftops, then sat up and pulled his trousers on. With all that had happened that afternoon, now the cloud was back.

He walked into the kitchen to find Dominique hard at work. "I'm going out for a little while."

She stopped working and looked at him. "Out where?"

"Basin Street."

"Whatchu wanna go there for?"

"I need to close some business."

"Tonight?"

"If I don't go now, by tomorrow morning there's going to be talk all over the street."

"So?"

"So I need to be the one who puts it there first."

She gave him a searching look. "You're comin' back, though."

"Oh, yes. I'm coming back."

"All right, then."

After he finished dressing, he went to the kitchen and kissed her cheek. She smiled and her eyes softened. When he got to the door, he looked back through the doorway and saw her watching him, her face composed in a sweet calm. She knew he'd be coming back.

The truth was he didn't want to have to explain his plan to Dominique. It wouldn't make sense to her. His first stop would be Countess Willie Piazza's mansion, where he would inform the madam that she should expect Mr. Anderson to demand his firing by the Basin Street madams. He was saving her the trouble by quitting. From there he would work his way down the line. They could believe anything they wanted about what was happening. At least, they would hear it from him and not Tom Anderson.

It didn't work out that way. When he came upon Countess Piazza's mansion, he found a gaggle of boys standing outside, listening to piano that was tinkling through a half-opened window. He stopped to lend an ear, then climbed the steps to the gallery and knocked on the door. A maid appeared and ushered him inside.

He found Professor Tony Jackson at the piano. The professor, small, trim, and as homely as could be, was dressed in light tan trousers and a white collarless shirt. His suspenders were dangling and he was in his stocking feet as he worked his way through a stately ragtime number. He glanced around when Valentin walked in and stopped playing.

"Mr. Valentin." His soft voice belied his surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I was ... I was passing by." Valentin nodded toward the window. "Do you know you have an audience out there?"

Jackson rose a few inches from the bench to peek out. "Oh, them. Yes, they come around all the time. They all gonna be professors one day. Or so they say. They don't know no better."

He sat back down and let his fingers roll over the keys. In an instant, the tangled knot in Valentin's head was washed away in the lush trickle of notes.

Jelly Roll Morton had been known to mutter that Professor Jackson got his skills by way of some private magic. Valentin knew that it wasn't magic at all. It was these hours spent on off days and nights, laboring away, worrying a single passage until it was perfect. While Morton was still sleeping off last night's fete, Tony Jackson would be sweating over the ivories in an empty Basin Street parlor.

Valentin stood by while the professor played the same eight bars a half-dozen times. It sounded flawless to the detective's ear, but Jackson kept shaking his head, sighing and frowning. Finally, he closed his eyes and played the passage twice more. Only then did he stop. He sat back, straightened his spine, flexed his fingers.

"You ever miss a day?" Valentin asked him.

"Not many." He eyed the detective speculatively. "You ain't just passing by, are you, Mr. Valentin?"